As Death Draws Near (26 page)

“I need to take another look at that tree by the pond,” I explained as she joined me.

Despite the light, sporadic rain, the workmen were almost certainly toiling away at the wall, so we used the more circuitous route through the door by the gardeners' cottages. The men looked up as we passed but, after a tip of their hats, ignored us as before. The ground near the pond was soft with mud, adding more stains to the hem of my skirt along with the blood.

Bree hung back as I approached the tree. It appeared much the same as before, but then I had not looked inside. I was curious whether my hunch was correct or if I was about to risk being bitten by a squirrel. An exposed root rounded upward adjacent to the hole in the trunk, allowing me to step up on it to cautiously peer inside rather than reaching in blindly over my head.

At first all I could see was darkness, though nothing appeared to move, but as I shifted my head around, the gleam of something pale caught my eye. I slowly slid my hand inside, conscious there could still be a creature calling that hole home. My fingers brushed something smooth and crisp, and I reached in farther, grasping a bundle tied with something. I almost shouted in triumph when I pulled out what appeared to be a stack of correspondence held together with string.

“Are those letters?” Bree asked, moving closer.

“It looks like it.” I grinned down at her. “Belonging to Miss Lennox, I presume.” I rose up on tiptoe to check inside the hole one last time to be certain I hadn't missed any before stepping down from the root.

“Why on earth did she decide to hide 'em in a tree?”

“Why else? She didn't want anyone to read them.”

Bree tilted her head in acknowledgment.

I stared down at the little packet, scolding myself for not searching the hole in the beech tree sooner. This wasn't the first time I'd found something important hidden inside a tree, but it would be the last time I underestimated its value as a place of concealment.

There had been a lull in the shower of misty rain, but I knew it was only a matter of time before it began again. Even so, I couldn't resist the temptation to read one or two of the letters to assuage my rapacious curiosity. What sort of information could these missives possibly contain that Miss Lennox would believe it necessary to hide them outside the abbey walls in a tree? Whom had she been corresponding with? Was it Wellington or another of her well-placed family members, like Casey alleged, or someone else?

I slipped one of the letters from the packet and unfolded the paper addressed simply to “HL.” I frowned at the absence of any address, and then thumbed through the other missives, finding them to be much the same. Had they contained an outer sheet of paper with her full name and direction? How else would the postmaster have known where or to whom they were to be delivered? But none of the sisters could recall her receiving any mail, and yet this stack was evidence of quite a regular correspondence. How else had it been conveyed to her? I glanced up at the tree, wondering if it served as more than a hiding place.

The letter was brief, as were the second and third ones I quickly perused, but given what I already knew, it was not difficult to infer what they meant. I was stunned. Nothing was as we'd been led to believe. Not even Lord Gage's insufferable assertions.

“I . . . I need to find somewhere dry and quiet to sit and read these,” I told Bree, feeling as if I'd stumbled into a labrynth.

“What is it, m'lady? What do they say?”

I glanced up into her concerned gaze. “I think Miss Lennox may have been a British spy.”

I
sat on a divan in the summerhouse, staring out through the large rounded open windows at the rain falling more earnestly. It tapped against the roof overhead with almost a musical quality, and softened the garden landscape beyond into a misty watercolor scene. However, far from charmed, I felt cold and stiff. Partly from the chill weight of my damp clothing drying in the breeze, which I suppose could have been remedied somewhat by closing the folded shutters of the windows. But that would have meant shutting out the light to leave us sitting among the dank, musty stench of the furnishings that the draft helped to mitigate as it stirred it with the scent of the rain and blooming flowers beyond.

In any case, most of the cold and stiffness I felt came not from without, but from within. I glanced toward the stack of Miss Lennox's letters piled between us and then up to Bree, who was perusing the last of them with a scowl. I wanted to rise, to force some movement into my limbs, some clarity into my mystified thoughts. Instead I sat rigidly staring out at the rain, trying not to feel what I was feeling.

Bree lowered the last of the letters, crinkling the paper as it touched her lap. I thought she was just as much at a loss for words, but she found them more quickly than I did.

“The poor lass.”

“Caught in a mess not of her making.”

Her gaze turned fierce. “Aye. By a lot o' men who seemed to care naught for her.”

I began to gather up the correspondence to bind them together. “I suspect they cared. But not as much as they should have.”

She folded the last of the missives and passed it to me. “Still. This task o' hers was eatin' her up inside. Ye can tell tha' from the way they berate her. And they did naught to help her.”

I gazed down at the letters held together by the bow I'd tied in the twine, perhaps the last evidence of Miss Lennox's mind and thoughts the world would ever know. “It's no wonder her nails were bitten to the quick. Keeping secrets to oneself is difficult. But one this massive, particularly when she seemed to genuinely care about these women, these students . . .” I lifted my hand before me “. . . this village.” I inhaled swiftly. “I've kept my fair share of confidences.” I glanced at Bree. “As have you. But nothing like this.”

It was as much an acknowledgment as I could give that her keeping her brother's identity a secret had been forgiven, and I could see in her eyes that she understood.

“Makes one wonder what some o' those people would do if they found oot,” she remarked.

“And how exactly Mother Mary Fidelis fit into all this. Did she know, or was she as fooled as everyone else?” Recalling how perceptive the sister had been, I had difficulty believing she was completely blind to Miss Lennox's deception, but she may not have known all. “Well, we do know one thing. Mr. Scully was aware of her secret. He knew of her hiding spot, and he said, ‘She's one of us,' which leads me to think he was privy to at least some of her thoughts. Otherwise, how could he be so certain of her not betraying them?”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs leading up into the summerhouse made us both turn in our seats.

“Gage,” I exclaimed as he strode through the open door, shaking water from his hat and greatcoat. I hurried toward him, more relieved than I realized to see him safe and unharmed, despite Mrs. Scully's earlier assurances.

He gathered me into his arms, under the sides of his sodden greatcoat. “Now, what's this?” he murmured as I buried my head in his cravat, inhaling his familiar scent. “Not that I mind such a greeting, but it would be good to know what's brought it on.”

I stepped back to look at him. “Davy and the Scullys told me about what happened at the cattle fair. They said you were well, but until I saw you for myself . . .” I broke off, not sure how to explain.

Thankfully I didn't need to. He nodded. “I'm fine. Both Anderley and myself.” He dipped his head toward his valet, who stood a discreet distance away with Bree, giving us as much privacy as the small octagonal building allowed.

I smiled at the dark-haired servant, the skin around his eye an ugly constellation of colors. “I'm glad of it.”

“The Scullys arrived safely then?”

“Yes. We moved Mr. Scully to the infirmary and Sister Bernard made him as comfortable as she could. When I left them, they were still waiting for the surgeon, but he should have already come and gone.” I studied his face. “I assume you called at the front door. Did they not tell you how he fared?”

“One of the younger sisters answered. All she told us was that you had gone out to the gardens.” His eyes traveled over our rather drafty and sparsely furnished surroundings. “What are you doing out here? Wouldn't the abbey parlor be far more comfortable?”

“Perhaps. But Bree and I found something.” I explained how Mr. Scully's words had led us to the location of Miss Lennox's long-lost correspondence. His eyes watched me carefully, and I knew I was not doing a very good job hiding my shock and dismay. Rather than tell him why, I urged him to sit and read the letters himself. There were only about two dozen, most of which were short, and sometimes terse. I suspected Miss Lennox's letters had been much more voluble, but none of those were included in the stack.

I paced before the windows, fidgeting with the buttons at the wrists of my gloves while he perused them. The thunderous
expression which fell over his features left no doubt as to how he felt about their contents. Even Anderley and Bree, who had been chatting in the far corner of the summerhouse, fell silent, conscious of their employer's building fury. Periodically, I shared glances with Bree, both of us mindful of what was to come.

Gage lowered the last letter with such a snap of his wrist that I was afraid he'd ripped the paper. “I cannot believe my father knew about this and did not see fit to inform us.”

I lifted my hands in entreaty. “We don't know that for certain . . .”

“Of course we do. If Wellington knew, and he clearly did, as he penned some of these missives himself . . .” he rattled the paper he still gripped in his hand “. . . and likely put the poor girl up to this ridiculousness in the first place, then my father knew.”

I lowered my arms, unable to argue with that.

His eyes narrowed to slits on the floorboards a few yards in front of him and then, with a scoff of disgust, rose to his feet. “He must believe we're idiots! How could he possibly think we wouldn't figure this out?”

I glanced toward where our servants stood, unable to help listening to us, though they tactfully looked away. I doubted he wished for them to be privy to this part of our conversation.

He scraped a hand back through his hair and followed my gaze, his chest still heaving with anger. Then he strode toward the window farthest from Bree and Anderley to glare out at the rain as he spoke in a lower voice. “I knew he cared little for some of my choices, that he was infuriated by my refusal to bow to his will, but
this
.”

I inched forward, past experiences making me wary of approaching a man bristling with anger even when rationally I knew I had nothing to fear. Gage spoke to me very little of his father, but I knew there was more behind this sudden vehement rage than his father's failure to share pertinent information with us about this investigation. But the
best I could do at the moment was try to diffuse some of it, to help him refocus on the matter at hand.

“It certainly would have helped us conduct this investigation faster,” I replied measuredly. “And possibly spared Mother Mary Fidelis's life.”

He whipped his head around to stare at me. “How are you not angry about this? The man just unforgivably insulted us.”

“Oh, I am. But I already know your father does not like me, or think highly of me. So I suppose I'm less shocked. In any case, just at the moment, one of us should keep a level head, and I figured it should be me since you have more of a right to your outrage.”

This explanation seemed to take some of the fuel out of his fire, for the hard line of his mouth softened. “Quite right.” He inhaled deeply, calming himself, and then turned to face us all. “Well, then. What does this mean for our investigation?”

Anderley stepped forward, clasping his arms behind his back. “Excuse me, sir. But seeing as I seem to be the only one who hasn't read those letters, would anyone mind telling me what they say before we discuss it?” He glanced at Bree. “Miss McEvoy said you've discovered Miss Lennox was a British spy?”

Gage nodded. “It appears that the British government—or at least Wellington and his cronies, since he's no longer prime minister—were more concerned than they publicly wished to acknowledge about the organized efforts begun to conduct this tithe war. Part of the reason Wellington and Peel and their government finally relented and pushed for the passage of Catholic Emancipation was because they feared the Irish Catholics rising up in armed rebellion, and the danger that would pose to British lives and British sovereignty. However, with that achieved, the Catholics in Ireland are now rallying around a different cause.

“For some reason—the letters aren't clear—Wellington seemed to fear these seeds of rebellion were being sown in Rathfarnham. Because of the history of the area, I imagine.
There have already been two revolts with their leadership partially centered here, in 1798 and 1803. And any rebellion after the government's capitulation would be an embarrassment, particularly to Wellington and his legacy. The letters do mention that previous attempts had been made to position men here in the village, to worm their way into the heart of the protestors, all of whom failed.

“Which is why they next decided to use a woman. One who'd not only converted to Catholicism, but decided to become a nun.” Gage's voice was sharp with disapproval.

“Except she hadna. No' really,” Bree chimed in.

“Though it's obvious she came to sympathize with them to some extent.” I stooped to gather up the letters where Gage had laid them. “She started to believe it was not the Catholics who were intent on causing disorder, but the Protestant Orangemen. The later letters from Wellington and two other men, who must have been part of the arrangement, tell her to stop speculating on matters she cannot fully comprehend and focus on the Ribbonmen.”

Gage pointed over my shoulder at the letter I was refolding. “The last one makes reference to something she wrote to warn them of, dismissing it as nonsense. But we don't have Miss Lennox's letter, so we don't know precisely what it was she was warning them of.”

“It obviously couldn't have been some sort of trouble the Catholics wished to cause, for then it wouldn't have been brushed aside,” I reasoned. “So it's probably something to do with the Orangemen.”

“I've heard talk of their planning a parade,” Anderley suggested. “The proprietor of the Yellow House and a few of the other shop owners are worried their businesses might suffer damage. Apparently, it's happened before.”

“Of course,” Gage gasped. “The Twelfth. That's the anniversary of the victory of Protestant King William III, William of Orange, over Catholic James II at the Battle of the Boyne. The Orangemen hold marches that day every year.”

“But that's only two days from now,” I pointed out.

Gage's expression turned grim.

“So ye were doin' something worthwhile hangin' aboot the tavern all day,” Bree teased Anderley. “No just avoidin' work in that way o' yers.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Could she have somehow discovered that the Orangemen intended to make trouble during this parade of theirs?” I asked, ignoring them both. “But when she tried to warn Wellington and the others, they dismissed her suspicions,” I ruminated, trying to puzzle this out. “So she contacted Mr. LaTouche, an old family friend who she knew lived in the area.
That's
why she wrote him. To warn him of the Orangemen, not the Catholics.”

Gage's eyes gleamed in agreement. “But he also refused to help. He told us so himself.
That
he wasn't lying about. So what did she do next?”

I frowned, recalling what Davy had confided in me. “She tried to persuade Mr. LaTouche a second time. Davy just told me he's almost certain he saw him earlier the day she was killed, though it could have been the day before. He also saw him talking to Mother Mary Fidelis the evening before she was killed.”

Gage tapped his hat against his side. “Mr. LaTouche has been in some awfully suspect places at suspect times.”

I had to agree. “But would he have killed them? Why? To keep Miss Lennox quiet about the parade, and Mother Mary Fidelis quiet about the first murder?”

“It's reason enough if you're devoted to the cause. Especially if he still believed Miss Lennox had converted to Catholicism.”

I sank down on the bench behind me, staring down at the stack of letters clutched in my hands. That hollow ache I'd been feeling for days began to throb again, seeming to open a hole up inside me. Sometimes it was difficult to accept the terrible lengths people would go to for their beliefs, particularly when they fooled themselves into thinking they were acting in the Lord's name or for the public's good when they were truly reacting out of hatred and fear. I had some personal experience with this beyond our other inquiries. I'd
witnessed the wild panic and fury of the mob outside the magistrate's court when I was brought up on charges of unnatural tendencies after my involvement in Sir Anthony's dissections came to light. But that had been because of the rumored crimes they'd believed I'd committed—luring people to their deaths so we could desecrate their bodies—not because of who I was as a person. These people, these neighbors, both Protestant and Catholic alike, who spat at each other with such hatred that it sometimes erupted into violence, did so because their faith was slightly different. Because they couldn't be bothered to learn the truth about each other.